Winston was gelatinous with fatigue1. Gelatinous was the right word. It had come into his head spontaneously. His body seemed to have not only the weakness of a jelly, but its translucency2. He felt that if he held up his hand he would be able to see the light through it. All the blood and lymph had been drained out of him by an enormous debauch3 of work, leaving only a frail4 structure of nerves, bones, and skin. All sensations seemed to be magnified. His overalls5 fretted6 his shoulders, the pavement tickled7 his feet, even the opening and closing of a hand was an effort that made his joints8 creak.
He had worked more than ninety hours in five days. So had everyone else in the
Ministry9. Now it was all over, and he had
literally10 nothing to do, no Party work of any description, until tomorrow morning. He could spend six hours in the hiding-place and another nine in his own bed. Slowly, in mild afternoon sunshine, he walked up a
dingy11 street in the direction of Mr Charrington’s shop, keeping one eye open for the patrols, but
irrationally12 convinced that this afternoon there was no danger of anyone
interfering13 with him. The heavy brief-case that he was carrying bumped against his knee at each step, sending a
tingling14 sensation up and down the skin of his leg. Inside it was the book, which he had now had in his possession for six days and had not yet opened, nor even looked at.
On the sixth day of Hate Week, after the processions, the speeches, the shouting, the singing, the banners, the posters, the films, the
waxworks15, the rolling of drums and
squealing16 of
trumpets17, the tramp of marching feet, the grinding of the
caterpillars18 of tanks, the roar of massed planes, the booming of guns — after six days of this, when the great orgasm was quivering to its
climax19 and the general
hatred20 of Eurasia had boiled up into such
delirium21 that if the crowd could have got their hands on the 2,000 Eurasian war-criminals who were to be publicly hanged on the last day of the
proceedings23, they would unquestionably have torn them to pieces — at just this moment it had been announced that Oceania was not after all at war with Eurasia. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Eurasia was an ally.
There was, of course, no admission that any change had taken place. Merely it became known, with extreme suddenness and everywhere at once, that Eastasia and not Eurasia was the enemy. Winston was taking part in a
demonstration24 in one of the central London squares at the moment when it happened. It was night, and the white faces and the
scarlet25 banners were
luridly26 floodlit. The square was packed with several thousand people, including a block of about a thousand schoolchildren in the uniform of the Spies. On a scarlet-draped platform an
orator27 of the Inner Party, a small lean man with disproportionately long arms and a large bald
skull28 over which a few
lank29 locks straggled, was
haranguing30 the crowd. A little Rumpelstiltskin figure, contorted with hatred, he gripped the neck of the microphone with one hand while the other, enormous at the end of a bony arm, clawed the air menacingly above his head. His voice, made
metallic31 by the amplifiers, boomed
forth32 an endless catalogue of
atrocities33,
massacres34, deportations, lootings, rapings, torture of prisoners, bombing of
civilians36, lying propaganda, unjust aggressions, broken treaties. It was almost impossible to listen to him without being first convinced and then maddened. At every few moments the fury of the crowd boiled over and the voice of the speaker was drowned by a wild beast-like roaring that rose uncontrollably from thousands of throats. The most
savage37 yells of all came from the schoolchildren. The speech had been
proceeding22 for perhaps twenty minutes when a messenger hurried on to the platform and a
scrap38 of paper was slipped into the speaker’s hand. He unrolled and read it without pausing in his speech. Nothing altered in his voice or manner, or in the content of what he was saying, but suddenly the names were different. Without words said, a wave of understanding
rippled39 through the crowd. Oceania was at war with Eastasia! The next moment there was a tremendous
commotion40. The banners and posters with which the square was decorated were all wrong! Quite half of them had the wrong faces on them. It was
sabotage41! The agents of Goldstein had been at work! There was a
riotous42 interlude while posters were ripped from the walls, banners torn to
shreds43 and
trampled44 underfoot. The Spies performed
prodigies45 of activity in clambering over the rooftops and cutting the streamers that fluttered from the chimneys. But within two or three minutes it was all over. The orator, still gripping the neck of the microphone, his shoulders
hunched46 forward, his free hand clawing at the air, had gone straight on with his speech. One minute more, and the feral roars of rage were again bursting from the crowd. The Hate continued exactly as before, except that the target had been changed.
The thing that impressed Winston in looking back was that the speaker had switched from one line to the other actually in midsentence, not only without a pause, but without even breaking the syntax. But at the moment he had other things to
preoccupy47 him. It was during the moment of
disorder48 while the posters were being torn down that a man whose face he did not see had tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Excuse me, I think you’ve dropped your brief-case.’ He took the brief-case abstractedly, without speaking. He knew that it would be days before he had an opportunity to look inside it. The instant that the demonstration was over he went straight to the Ministry of Truth, though the time was now nearly twenty-three hours. The entire staff of the Ministry had done likewise. The orders already issuing from the telescreen, recalling them to their posts, were hardly necessary.
Oceania was at war with Eastasia: Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia. A large part of the political literature of five years was now completely
obsolete49. Reports and records of all kinds, newspapers, books, pamphlets, films, sound-tracks, photographs — all had to be
rectified50 at lightning speed. Although no directive was ever issued, it was known that the chiefs of the Department intended that within one week no reference to the war with Eurasia, or the alliance with Eastasia, should remain in existence anywhere. The work was overwhelming, all the more so because the processes that it involved could not be called by their true names. Everyone in the Records Department worked eighteen hours in the twenty-four, with two three-hour snatches of sleep.
Mattresses51 were brought up from the cellars and pitched all over the corridors: meals consisted of sandwiches and Victory Coffee wheeled round on
trolleys52 by attendants from the canteen. Each time that Winston broke off for one of his spells of sleep he tried to leave his desk clear of work, and each time that he crawled back sticky-eyed and aching, it was to find that another shower of paper
cylinders54 had covered the desk like a snowdrift, half-burying the speakwrite and
overflowing55 on to the floor, so that the first job was always to stack them into a neat enough pile to give him room to work. What was worst of all was that the work was by no means
purely56 mechanical. Often it was enough merely to substitute one name for another, but any
detailed57 report of events demanded care and imagination. Even the
geographical58 knowledge that one needed in transferring the war from one part of the world to another was considerable.
By the third day his eyes ached
unbearably59 and his spectacles needed wiping every few minutes. It was like struggling with some crushing physical task, something which one had the right to refuse and which one was nevertheless
neurotically60 anxious to accomplish. In so far as he had time to remember it, he was not troubled by the fact that every word he murmured into the speakwrite, every stroke of his ink-pencil, was a deliberate lie. He was as anxious as anyone else in the Department that the
forgery61 should be perfect. On the morning of the sixth day the
dribble62 of cylinders slowed down. For as much as half an hour nothing came out of the tube; then one more
cylinder53, then nothing. Everywhere at about the same time the work was easing off. A deep and as it were secret sigh went through the Department. A
mighty63 deed, which could never be mentioned, had been achieved. It was now impossible for any human being to prove by documentary evidence that the war with Eurasia had ever happened. At twelve hundred it was unexpectedly announced that all workers in the Ministry were free till tomorrow morning. Winston, still carrying the brief-case containing the book, which had remained between his feet while he worked and under his body while he slept, went home, shaved himself, and almost fell asleep in his bath, although the water was barely more than
tepid64.
With a sort of
voluptuous65 creaking in his joints he climbed the stair above Mr Charrington’s shop. He was tired, but not sleepy any longer. He opened the window, lit the dirty little oilstove and put on a pan of water for coffee. Julia would arrive presently: meanwhile there was the book. He sat down in the sluttish armchair and
undid66 the
straps67 of the brief-case.
A heavy black volume,
amateurishly68 bound, with no name or title on the cover. The print also looked slightly irregular. The pages were worn at the edges, and fell apart, easily, as though the book had passed through many hands. The
inscription69 on the title-page ran:
THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF
by
Emmanuel Goldstein
Winston began reading:
Chapter I
Ignorance is Strength
Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the
Neolithic71 Age, there have been three kinds of people in the world, the High, the Middle, and the Low. They have been
subdivided72 in many ways, they have borne
countless73 different names, and their relative numbers, as well as their attitude towards one another, have
varied74 from age to age: but the essential structure of society has never altered. Even after enormous
upheavals75 and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same pattern has always reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always return to
equilibrium76, however far it is pushed one way or the other.
Winston stopped reading, chiefly in order to appreciate the fact that he was reading, in comfort and safety. He was alone: no telescreen, no ear at the keyhole, no nervous impulse to glance over his shoulder or cover the page with his hand. The sweet summer air played against his cheek. From somewhere far away there floated the faint shouts of children: in the room itself there was no sound except the insect voice of the clock. He settled deeper into the arm-chair and put his feet up on the fender. It was
bliss79, it was
eternity80. Suddenly, as one sometimes does with a book of which one knows that one will ultimately read and re-read every word, he opened it at a different place and found himself at Chapter III. He went on reading:
Chapter III
War is Peace
The splitting up of the world into three great super-states was an event which could be and indeed was foreseen before the middle of the twentieth century. With the absorption of Europe by Russia and of the British Empire by the United States, two of the three existing powers, Eurasia and Oceania, were already effectively in being. The third, Eastasia, only emerged as a distinct unit after another decade of confused fighting. The frontiers between the three super-states are in some places arbitrary, and in others they fluctuate according to the fortunes of war, but in general they follow geographical lines. Eurasia comprises the whole of the northern part of the European and Asiatic land-mass, from Portugal to the Bering Strait. Oceania comprises the Americas, the Atlantic islands including the British
Isles81, Australasia, and the southern portion of Africa. Eastasia, smaller than the others and with a less definite western frontier, comprises China and the countries to the south of it, the Japanese islands and a large but fluctuating portion of Manchuria, Mongolia, and Tibet.
In one combination or another, these three super-states are
permanently82 at war, and have been so for the past twenty-five years. War, however, is no longer the desperate,
annihilating83 struggle that it was in the early decades of the twentieth century. It is a
warfare84 of limited aims between combatants who are unable to destroy one another, have no material cause for fighting and are not divided by any genuine
ideological85 difference. This is not to say that either the conduct of war, or the
prevailing86 attitude towards it, has become less bloodthirsty or more
chivalrous87. On the contrary, war hysteria is continuous and universal in all countries, and such acts as
raping35, looting, the
slaughter88 of children, the reduction of whole populations to slavery, and
reprisals89 against prisoners which extend even to boiling and burying alive, are looked upon as normal, and, when they are committed by one’s own side and not by the enemy,
meritorious90. But in a physical sense war involves very small numbers of people, mostly highly-trained specialists, and causes comparatively few casualties. The fighting, when there is any, takes place on the vague frontiers whose whereabouts the average man can only guess at, or round the Floating
Fortresses91 which guard strategic spots on the sea lanes. In the centres of civilization war means no more than a continuous shortage of consumption goods, and the occasional crash of a rocket bomb which may cause a few scores of deaths. War has in fact changed its character. More exactly, the reasons for which war is waged have changed in their order of importance.
Motives92 which were already present to some small extent in the great wars of the early twentieth century have now become
dominant93 and are consciously recognized and acted upon.
To understand the nature of the present war — for in spite of the regrouping which occurs every few years, it is always the same war — one must realize in the first place that it is impossible for it to be decisive. None of the three super-states could be
definitively94 conquered even by the other two in combination. They are too evenly matched, and their natural defences are too formidable. Eurasia is protected by its vast land spaces, Oceania by the width of the Atlantic and the Pacific, Eastasia by the
fecundity95 and
industriousness96 of its inhabitants.
Secondly97, there is no longer, in a material sense, anything to fight about. With the establishment of self-contained economies, in which production and consumption are geared to one another, the
scramble98 for markets which was a main cause of previous wars has come to an end, while the competition for raw materials is no longer a matter of life and death. In any case each of the three super-states is so vast that it can obtain almost all the materials that it needs within its own boundaries. In so far as the war has a direct economic purpose, it is a war for labour power. Between the frontiers of the super-states, and not permanently in the possession of any of them, there lies a rough quadrilateral with its corners at Tangier, Brazzaville, Darwin, and Hong Kong, containing within it about a fifth of the population of the earth. It is for the possession of these thickly-populated regions, and of the northern ice-cap, that the three powers are constantly struggling. In practice no one power ever controls the whole of the disputed area. Portions of it are constantly changing hands, and it is the chance of seizing this or that fragment by a sudden stroke of treachery that
dictates99 the endless changes of
alignment100.
All of the disputed territories contain valuable minerals, and some of them yield important vegetable products such as rubber which in colder climates it is necessary to synthesize by comparatively expensive methods. But above all they contain a bottomless reserve of cheap labour. Whichever power controls equatorial Africa, or the countries of the Middle East, or Southern India, or the Indonesian Archipelago, disposes also of the bodies of scores or hundreds of millions of ill-paid and hard-working coolies. The inhabitants of these areas, reduced more or less openly to the status of slaves, pass continually from
conqueror101 to conqueror, and are
expended102 like so much coal or oil in the race to turn out more armaments, to capture more territory, to control more labour power, to turn out more armaments, to capture more territory, and so on indefinitely. It should be
noted103 that the fighting never really moves beyond the edges of the disputed areas. The frontiers of Eurasia flow back and forth between the basin of the Congo and the northern shore of the
Mediterranean104; the islands of the Indian Ocean and the Pacific are constantly being captured and recaptured by Oceania or by Eastasia; in Mongolia the dividing line between Eurasia and Eastasia is never stable; round the Pole all three powers lay claim to enormous territories which in fact are largely uninhabited and unexplored: but the balance of power always
remains105 roughly even, and the territory which forms the heartland of each super-state always remains
inviolate106. Moreover, the labour of the exploited peoples round the Equator is not really necessary to the world’s economy. They add nothing to the wealth of the world, since whatever they produce is used for purposes of war, and the object of waging a war is always to be in a better position in which to wage another war. By their labour the slave populations allow the
tempo107 of continuous warfare to be speeded up. But if they did not exist, the structure of world society, and the process by which it maintains itself, would not be
essentially108 different.
The primary aim of modern warfare (in accordance with the principles of DOUBLETHINK, this aim is
simultaneously109 recognized and not recognized by the directing brains of the Inner Party) is to use up the products of the machine without raising the general standard of living. Ever since the end of the nineteenth century, the problem of what to do with the surplus of consumption goods has been latent in industrial society. At present, when few human beings even have enough to eat, this problem is obviously not urgent, and it might not have become so, even if no artificial processes of destruction had been at work. The world of today is a bare, hungry, dilapidated place compared with the world that existed before 1914, and still more so if compared with the imaginary future to which the people of that period looked forward. In the early twentieth century, the vision of a future society unbelievably rich, leisured, orderly, and efficient — a glittering antiseptic world of glass and steel and snow-white concrete — was part of the consciousness of nearly every
literate110 person. Science and technology were developing at a
prodigious111 speed, and it seemed natural to assume that they would go on developing. This failed to happen, partly because of the
impoverishment112 caused by a long series of wars and revolutions, partly because scientific and technical progress depended on the empirical habit of thought, which could not survive in a
strictly113 regimented society. As a whole the world is more
primitive114 today than it was fifty years ago. Certain backward areas have advanced, and various devices, always in some way connected with warfare and police
espionage115, have been developed, but experiment and invention have largely stopped, and the
ravages116 of the atomic war of the nineteen-fifties have never been
fully117 repaired. Nevertheless the dangers inherent in the machine are still there. From the moment when the machine first made its appearance it was clear to all thinking people that the need for human
drudgery118, and therefore to a great extent for human inequality, had disappeared. If the machine were used
deliberately119 for that end, hunger, overwork, dirt,
illiteracy120, and disease could be eliminated within a few generations. And in fact, without being used for any such purpose, but by a sort of automatic process — by producing wealth which it was sometimes impossible not to distribute — the machine did raise the living standards of the average human being very greatly over a period of about fifty years at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries.